


The Shadow of a Distant Storm

by cordsycords



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, L.A. By Night (Web Series)
Genre: Author Has An Encyclopedic Knowledge Of Dragon Age Canon And Isn't Afraid To Use It, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Violence, Casteless Dwarves, Chantry Issues, EXTREMELY SELF-INDULGENT AU, Enemies to Friends, Fantastic Racism, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Friends of Red Jenny, Gen, Haven (Dragon Age), Internalized racism, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Magisters, Nevarra (Dragon Age), Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), The Author Regrets Nothing, but wait cords, jasper and eva are both in your fic but you didn't tag them as a romantic couple, like seriously, okay let's include some actual tags in here, that's right folks i have range
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22465309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordsycords/pseuds/cordsycords
Summary: In 9:41 Dragon the continent of Thedas lies in turmoil as mages and templars wage war across borders.In the north, an Antivan Crow stalks an elvish mage on the run from her Tevinter masters.A Seeker protects a disgraced Comtesse from those who wish her dead, accompanying her as they escape from the Orlesian Empire.Two casteless dwarves try to find their way through the Free Marches and the confusing world of the surface-dwellers.None participate in the war, but all are affected by it, and destiny forces them to Haven.(An LA By Night x Dragon Age AU)
Relationships: Annabelle/Ellenore (L.A. By Night), Eva & Jasper Heartwood, Nelli G/Victor Temple
Comments: 14
Kudos: 17





	1. Great Heroes Beyond Counting Raised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, yes, okay. So this is a thing that happened. I can explain.
> 
> Dragon Age is, by far, my absolute favourite piece of canon to ever exist. I'm not joking. This canon singlehandedly brought me into fandom ten years ago now, and I've actually been writing fic for it ever since. I haven't ever _posted_ said fic, but it's somewhere stored on an old computer hard drive I'm sure.
> 
> Half of my desire to write this comes from watching Alex Ward's Twitch streams, as he also might enjoy Dragon Age as much as I do. I've really wanted to do a replay of the games, but I have no time to do that, so I wrote this instead. That implies that I have time to write this, which I don't, but it's fine.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy my self-indulgence.
> 
> (Work Title from Apotheosis 2:1 of the Chant of Light)
> 
> (Chapter Title from Andraste 1:2 of the Chant of Light)

If there was one thing that Jasper was sure of, it was that he did _not_ like Magister Strauss.

The man sat in a throne on the dais, looking down at him through blood red-coloured lenses. He was bald, old, like many Magisters were, his long crimson robes probably hiding a body that was more dead than alive, putting on the presentation of power rather than letting anyone see the cracks. Unlike most Magisters Jasper had met, which was enough Magisters to understand those who walked amongst the upper-echelon of Tevinter society, the Magister’s staff, held in his left hand, was not gaudy or ostentatious, but strict, and unassuming. It glowed a light bronze in the low firelight, it’s power radiating waves of heat that warmed the room farther than any fire could. Aurum, then. Expensive.

Right beside him, sitting on a smaller, less ornate chair, was a woman, who was no doubt the Magister’s apprentice. Her robes were black velvet, embroidered with runes made of silver thread, and all held together by a metal corset that looked none-too-comfortable to wear. Unlike her master, she did not carry a staff of her own, but it was undoubtful that she held no magical talent to be sitting at such a high position in the hall. She had not spoken since he had entered, and he had not heard the Magister speak her name, but she kept an eye on the proceedings and seemed to have some vested interest in them if her expressions were anything to go by.

The Magister, the apprentice, and himself were the only free persons in the audience hall. The rest of those privy to the meeting were the Magister’s personal slaves, obvious by the large metal collar that encased their throats. A dozen or so elves stood around the perimeter of the hall, each one armed with a passable sword and leather armour. At the front, on the opposite side of the Magister from his apprentice, was a hulking Qunari, it’s mouth sewn shut, scars running up and down its hulking bare chest. A large menacing battle-axe was strapped to it’s back, and it’s intense gaze never left the assassin standing at the centre of the room.

It was all meant to intimidate him, he supposed, though none of it was necessary. The Magister had requested to hire a Crow, and Jasper was here to collect the contract. If he had been there for any other reason then the Magister would have already been dead. Even if Jasper himself died in the process, the Crows would still get their money, and another assassin would just end up taking his place.

So this show of power was superfluous, absolutely pointless to one who did not care about dying. And that was the first reason he did not like Magister Strauss.

“Are you the assassin, _elf_?” The Magister asked, his voice echoing through the hall with some minor magical effect.

And there was the second reason.

He bowed in the Tevinter fashion, as he was taught to do in training: a single foot forward, a very short bow, head toward the floor, do not look up until you’re standing erect once more, very simple, “Yes, Magister. Jasper Heartwood, of the Antivan Crows, at your service.”

“ _Heartwood_ ,” the Magister spat, “how very… Ferelden.”

His father could have been Ferelden, he supposed. His mother was an Antivan whore, but that was only a guess, as many Crow’s had whore mothers. His name was neither one nor the other, it was only his own, as many Crows chose their own names. Jasper was a type of stone. He had a red chunk of it, taken off the cold corpse of his first kill. The name seemed appropriate.

He did not deign a response.

“And is the mask, necessary?”

Ah, right.

“Of course not, Magister,” he replied, reaching off to remove the crows-beak mask from his face. He watched the mage’s reaction as he did so. The Magister reared back at the sight of the scars running from forehead to jaw across his face, three large claw marks that never healed properly, tearing through his upper lip so that a permanent sneer marked his expression. The apprentice gasped, quickly holding up a hand to hide her indiscretion. Her master did not seem to notice.

He almost smiled. Almost.

“You understand the terms of the contract?”

“Of course, ser. Not an assassination, but a retrieval of… property.”

“And your qualifications?”

Jasper suppressed a sigh. Another problem with Magisters, they didn’t respect the reputation of the Crows. Contracts were important, always held, and if one belonged to the Crows, then they were sure to have a kill-list as long as their arm before they turned of age. Nevertheless, he pointedly took a long breath and began to recount his most recent accomplishments.

He tended to edit the list as he went. No client wanted to hear about the two dozen or so members of the Antivan nobility he had killed, as that was just day-to-day business with the Crows. He mentioned the Orlesian Marquise, the Ferelden Bann, a high-ranking member of the Qunari military, which was sure to get any Tevinter excited, and continued until he had to stop for a second breath to start again.

“Yes, that will be all,” Strauss interrupted him, trying to restrain his growing consternation.

“Of course, Magister.”

“So you are up to the task.”

“I only need the description of my quarry, Magister, and I will be on my way,” he said, not even pretending to hide the cockiness in his tone.

“Hmph,” the Magister sighed, waving his hand at his apprentice.

“You have been hired to return an escaped slave,” the apprentice said. Her voice did not echo as the Magister’s had, and so she had to strain to be heard in the grand hall, “A young elvish woman. Pale skin, ivory hair, blue eyes. She will have the Magister’s collar around her neck.”

“And where was this woman last seen?”

“She was reported to be seen heading toward our southern border with Nevarra a fortnight ago.”

He suppressed a scoff. One single elvish woman to find in the entirety of the south. An almost impossible task. Strauss might as well kill him on the spot, “And her name?”

The Magister visibly shifted in his chair, and the heat of the room heightened for a moment before it suddenly cooled. The apprentice noticed her master’s discomfort, waiting for him to settle before continuing.

“The slave was given the name Evangeline,” she said, a slight quiver to her words.

“Thank you, my lady,” he nodded in her direction.

“Is that-” the Magister began.

“And she will not be harmed?” The apprentice asked, interrupting him.

The heat swelled once more, so much that it became difficult to breathe, as the Magister clenched his hand around his staff, pounding the butt of it into the marble floor of the hall, the sound echoing like a thunder crack through the hall. Jasper’s heart began to suddenly pound against his chest as he experienced the barely controlled power of the mage, every instinct telling him to run from the hall and the dangers it held.

“Katya,” the Magister reprimanded his apprentice, turning his fiery gaze towards her. She looked meek in her chair, muttering her apologies under her breath before the temperature in the room finally returned to normal.

“Will that be all, elf?” The Magister turned his attention back towards Jasper.

“Is there anything else I must know to complete the contract?”

The Magister stared at him, “No.”

“Then no.”

“You are dismissed.”

He bowed once more before replacing his mask, turning to exit the room. Two elves opened the giant wooden doors, and as they closed them behind him he could hear the shrill sound of the apprentice’s scream as her master inflicted his punishment on her.

A third reason to dislike Magister Strauss. And they were growing ever so quickly.

By the time the meeting was over it was far too late in the day to consider leaving Minrathous immediately, which was all the same to him. Although he disliked the Vints for their insane politics and dangerous inclinations, he found Minrathous to be quite fascinating. The largest city in Thedas, one of the oldest, and also the only one which held magic in the highest of regards. Not only the city was built with the magic of its residents, but it was maintained by it, crumbling buildings hundreds of years old heald together by invisible forces that broke all rules of logical physics.

The Magister lived in the Interium of the city, where all people of his station did, far away from the poor and soporati of the Exterius. The Interium rose above the city in seven concentric rings, each one higher than the other, with the Archon’s palace sitting at the top. The Circle of Magi took up the entire second ring, and Strauss’ manse sat in the northern quarter of the third ring, looking over the endless ports and shipyards of the city’s seaside border spread out beneath it. He was certainly high-ranking, as those who held the most power were given residences closest to the Archon himself.

While there were many streets and pathways that made their way through the various rings, the main one was the Archon’s Walk, which was a large promenade many carriages wide that stretched from the Archon’s palace all the way down to the southern Interium gates. He made his way there, a strange sight to be seen, a free elf walking through the streets like he owned them. There was no need to worry about his safety, however. He wore the mark of the Crows, and people knew to stay away.

From the third ring of the Interium, he could see the towering structure of the Argent Spire, which housed the Black Divine, shining brightly in the setting sun in the western quarter of the seventh ring. Outside of the Interium’s walls stood the hulking emerald pyramid of the proving grounds, built in the fashion of the Dwarves, it’s terraced gardens the only spot of colour in the city of jet black stone. Before him, sitting directly in the centre of the Archon’s Walk on the fifth ring was the Imperial Senate. To the non-magical eye, the building had no doors, only tall featureless black walls, topped with gargoyles and the statues of Magisters and Archon’s long passed, their staffs in hand, treading on the heads of the enslaved beneath their feet.

He kept to the sides of the promenade, avoiding the rush of carriages that rushed back and forth down the centre. The promenade itself was dotted with shops of every kind selling their wares and, perhaps more importantly, the slave auctions that were wrapping up for the day. He tried not to look at the poor souls, mostly elves, some humans, and even the occasional feral Qunari kept under lock and key. Each auction advertised a different type of slave, from pleasure slaves to those that could be bought to fight in the proving grounds for the Magister’s entertainment. The merchandise all stood in lines, ankles and wrists manacled together, attached to one another as they looked downward, waiting for orders from their minders less they feel the lash of the whip.

There was no time for him to dawdle, curfew came at sundown, and if he was still in the Interium by then he could expect to spend the night in shackles regardless of his profession. The Crows, however expensive a contract with them may be, could be considered quite cheap when it came to housing their assassins. The guild was set up in the Exterius, right by the southern wall. From the outside, it looked like a brothel, but a secret entrance in an alley three streets away lead into the basement where the real business was held.

He kept up a light jog to make it to the Interium gates in time, getting waved through without question. The guards were more concerned with the line of carriages coming in, careful not to offend a member of any of the Altus families within or, Maker forbid, a Magister.

He grew more aware of his surroundings as soon as he exited the Interium. The streets grew ever more dangerous the farther away you walked from the watchful gaze of the Archon’s palace. He had not brought his daggers with him, the Magister requested no weapons be present during the meeting, but he still kept his Crows knife in his boot. His fingers itched to wrap his hand around the hilt, a comfort within his grip to hold a weapon he knew so well. But walking through the streets with a knife in his hand was just an invitation for trouble, so he kept still.

He encountered no interference on his way to the secret alley entrance of the guild, quickly glancing around him before lifting the latch that kept the door closed, holding his breath as he dropped into the tunnel below. The tunnel ran parallel to the city’s sewers, and it’s stench was similar to them as well.

He knew the path without needing a torch to light his way, taking each left and right with utter confidence before he came on what appeared to be a dead end. Another latch on the left wall opened the tunnels into the guild basement, which was lit by low candlelight. The guild itself was not as grand as the one in Antiva, only meant as a waypoint for Crows in the city rather than any sort of gathering place. Only the Minrathous Guildmaster kept permanent residence here with half a dozen or so Crows in training who kept the place running in his absence.

Other than himself, there were only two others staying here. He had not talked to them since he had arrived, and they avoided him all the same. There were a dozen hammocks hanging around the basement, but they all seemed to be vacant. Perhaps he was the only one left.

He walked over to the corner of the room, where a small desk sat. A young elven boy, not more than fifteen, sat behind it, working at his knife with a whetstone as he had been taught. He startled when he finally noticed Jasper, which took far too long, but Jasper decided not to remark on his lack of perception, even though such things would normally result in death for a recruit.

“Yes, serah?” The recruit asked, head bowed to his elder.

“I have a contract.”

“Of course,” he held his hand out and Jasper reached within his cloak to retrieve a folded piece of parchment that held the written terms of the contract, offering it to the boy. He took it, quickly unfolding it to look over the paper. 

“Um, yes, everything… er?”

“What?” Jasper growled.

“Your signature, serah.” The boy squeaked out, laying the parchment out in front of him on the desk, then grabbing a quill and inkpot.

Jasper looked at the items, and then up at the boy. When he reached out, it was not for the quill, but for the knife that the boy had left on the desk. With a flash, it was in his hands, and he brought the tip of it to the flesh of his thumb, nicking it where it had been cut many times before. He allowed the blood to well up until it spilled down into the leather of his gloves, pressing his bloody thumb down onto the parchment before he impaled the knife into the wood of the desk, causing the boy to jump from his seat.

“Sharp.” He remarked, turning away before he brought his thumb up to his mouth to suck away the blood.

The hammock he had chosen was in the far corner. His pack was where he had left it, his daggers bundled up in worn cloth, his bow and quiver of arrows leaning against the wall. Before bed, he checked through it all, counted every arrow, pulled at the bowstring to check it’s tautness, brought a whetstone to the edge of his blades like he did every night. By the time he was done, he could feel the fatigue of travel set in, and hefted himself into his hammock, quickly falling to sleep without trouble.

He kept the mask on.

* * *

Ser Victor sat on the green grass, his back leaning against a tree behind him. His pack and armour were spread around him, his large broadsword propped up against his bent knee as he brought a whetstone to its edge in measured strokes. From behind him, he could hear the gentle trickling of a shallow stream, accompanied by the sound of several interesting Orlesian expletives said in quick succession. He laughed to himself, amused at the woman bathing behind him.

Daffodil whined at his mistress’ misery, the mabari putting its paws over his ears.

“That’s right, don’t listen to what she says,” he said to the dog, who huffed at him in response.

“I can hear you!” Nelli called from behind him, continuing to swear as she got out of the cold water and her naked, wet skin hit the cool evening air. It was another minute or so before she joined him by their small fire, wrapped in a dusty old travelling cloak that he had bought for her. The one she had brought, while beautiful and lavish and appropriate for a lady of her station, had not been enough to hold off the early autumn chill. They had sold it in a town they passed two days previously, along with many of her jewels and other trinkets she had brought with them from Val Royeux.

Nelli sat down across from Victor, and Daffodil immediately came to her side, nudging to be let under the cloak. She let him in, and he curled around her, resting his giant head on her lap. Victor looked up, watching as she reached down to pet the mabari on the head. It was a strange sight to see, an Orlesian noble and her Ferelden war hound, but mabari bonded to their masters for life, and Nelli was just as attached to the dog in turn. 

Victor had teased her, initially, for the name she had picked out for her faithful hound. These dogs were bred for killing, he had explained, it was not fit to name one after a delicate flower. She had argued, as she was often wont to do, that daffodils were representative of friendship, chivalry, and faithfulness, which were not qualities to be overlooked in the mabari in addition to their fierceness. He agreed with her, for he did not know enough about the subject to make a compelling argument back, and he often found it to be better if he just agreed with her on occasion.

After Daffodil had seemed placated by his mistresses’ affection, she turned to the matter of her hair, sighing as she attempted to wring her fingers through it. She kept it long, like many ladies at court. It was meant to be done up in intricate braids, held together by diamond tiaras and silk ties, not left done for the world to see. Still, she worked her fingers through every strand, cursing at every knot, until it was in a more manageable state. It was a ritual, he understood, one that made her feel more like herself.

She gathered it all into three strands, and spent the next minute or so braiding them together, tying it all with a dirty length of cloth.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Absolutely beautiful, Comtesse,” he said, referring to her by her noble title out of reflex.

She flinched, “Victor, please.”

He looked once more. No, she did not look beautiful. Not by her standards, which were the standards of the Orlesian Court and therefore quite impossible to live up to. When she had been a player of the Great Game, she had dressed in the finest of silks and velvets, deep blues and royal purples, all accented by her signature red-feathered masque. Now she dressed in plain cloth and leather armour, quiet and unassuming.

“Blessedly normal, then,” he said, “Nelli.”

She smiled, a sad, lonely thing that never reached her eyes, and went back to her dog, scratching Daffodil between the ears so that he scrunched up his face in his sleep.

Truthfully, Victor was surprised how well the denounced Comtesse had quickly taken to a life of constant travel. It had been one week since their flight from Val Royeaux, and he had heard no word of exhaustion, or her sheer stubbornness since then. The forced march he kept them at was no easy task for one who was suited to life as a noblewoman, but she kept his pace with no complaints. 

The route they were taking would take them along the detour route from Val Royeaux, skirting around Lake Celestine in the attempt of throwing their pursuers off by taking an indirect route. The next city they would arrive in would be Montisimmard, where they would purchase enough food for the two of them. Then they would leave the general safety of the Imperial Highway for a trek across the Dales, through the Frostbacks, and into Ferelden.

Which was not to say that Ferelden was that much safer than Orlais. It wasn’t. In his personal opinion, nowhere he could bring her to would be safe, not with the mages in all-out rebellion and his brothers and sisters in the Order splitting from the Chantry’s control. He had no will to go to fight with them, he barely believed in the war they were fighting. He had taken his newfound freedom to travel to Val Royeaux to see an old friend, and then that old friend had been framed for the five-year-old murder of her husband.

To be sure, the accusation was accurate. Comtesse Petronilla du Price _did_ kill her husband. Quite willfully, in fact, as he heard her tell the tale. But from what Victor had heard of Comte Charles du Price, he was sure that the man had absolutely deserved it.

* * *

“RARRRRGHGHGGGHHH,” the hurlock shrieked into Annabelle’s face, spewing a dreadful smelling ichor into the air in front of it. It reared back it’s shortsword, swinging it downwards toward her head.

“AGGGHHHHHH,” she roared back, swinging her warhammer off to the side, angling it upwards to account for the darkspawn’s height over her, and slamming it against the monster’s head. A delightfully macabre _crack_ indicated that the spine had separated, and then her hammer began to sail through empty air as the head became detached from the body, flying several feet away.

“Ahaha! Eighth down, Casey,” she shouted to the qunari on her left, who was busy gutting a Shriek in half with her battleaxe.

“Good job, little Belle,” the giant horned woman shouted back, “But I’ve managed fourteen already!”

The blade of the axe sunk into the Shriek’s shoulder, spewing blood all over Casey, which very quickly soaked up into her skin. With her foe downed, she moved further into the fray, stepping faster and heavier than she did before.

An arrow whizzed past Annabelle’s face, sinking into the eye of a genlock she hadn’t noticed sneak up behind her.

“Focus, Annie!” Ellenore shouted, pulling another arrow from her quiver and sinking it into the Genlock’s other eye, just in case. Sycorax stood next to her, the Rivani hedge witch firing bolts of arcane energy from the end of her hemlock staff. 

Sycorax startled, looking across the battlefield in fear before she dropped her staff and leaped forward, transforming into the large wolf midair as she charged ahead.

“Annabelle!” Ellenore pointed, “Ogre!”

Annabelle shifted in place as Sycorax ran past her. The hulking monstrosity stood over ten feet tall, making the almost 7-foot Casey seem small in comparison as she charged at it, battle-axe raised in the air. Annabelle swallowed back her anxiety, and raced forward, attempting to keep pace with the wolf.

Casey was the first to meet the ogre, dodging a punch from a fist two times the size of her head before embedding her axe in the thing’s chest. Unable to retrieve it in time, she couldn’t dodge the second fist that hit her side, sending her flying a few feet into the air.

The wolf howled, speeding forward and pouncing onto the ogre’s chest, knocking it back into the mud. It snapped at the darkspawn’s head, teeth gnashing and gnawing into its flesh. Annabelle winced at the sight, imagining the taste of Darkspawn flesh to be absolutely awful. The ogre howled in pain, it’s cry echoing across the field, finally able to wrap a hand around the wolf and throw it off. The wolf followed Casey through the air, transforming back into Sycorax as it rolled on the ground.

Annabelle steeled herself, finally getting to the ogre as it attempted to stand. She got there first, sliding to the ground with her warhammer stretched out beside her, connecting the heavy weapon with the ogre’s knee. Another satisfying crack and it collapsed to one foot. It reached out toward her, but she ducked just in time, finally able to use her dwarvish size to her advantage. Four arrows made their way into its arm, and its gaze turned to Ellenore, still over fifty feet away with her bow and arrow.

“Payback, you fucker!” And there was Casey again, raging back towards the fray, bloodshot eyes wide in anger. The ogre was distracted by another volley of arrows, and she used its hesitation, pulling her axe from its chest and jumping up onto its bent knee to sink it into the ogre’s neck. It crumpled underneath her, but even as it died she continued to cut its throat until the head was severed. With each swing, her blood-rage lost its grip on her senses, and she finally calmed down.

“I want its head,” she said, looking up at Annabelle.

She shrugged, “Hey, you can have it.”

The Qunari nodded in thanks and went to attend to Sycorax. The hedge witch had lifted herself up from the ground, but couldn’t seem to walk well without help. Casey didn’t hesitate to pick her up in her arms, the glowing blue aura of a healing spell encompassing them both when she did.

Annabelle sheathed her warhammer, the heavy weapon fitting into a harness of straps on her back. She walked through the carnage, a horde of almost two dozen Darkspawn dead at her feet, their blighted blood poisoning the earth below. She was no stranger to the devils, having grown up in Orzammar incursions of Darkspawn into the city from the Deep Roads occurred almost weekly.

Ellenore met her halfway, rushing to see if she had been hurt. Her soft hands, now sporting some brand new callouses, went to Annabelle’s cheeks, checking from side-to-side.

“I’m fine, Elle,” Annabelle said, reaching up to grab her lover’s wrist, resting their foreheads together.

They made camp that night, settling around a fire in a small grove of apple trees a ways away from the burning stench of the Darkspawn corpses they had set alight. Sycorax and Casey attended to her ogre’s head, detaching the mighty horns and cleaning it of any remaining blight. 

Ellenore and Annabelle sat on the other side of the fire, finishing up a deep clean of their worn leathers.

“How long has it been, Annie?” Ellenore asked.

Annabelle took a second to think, counting the days since they had made it to the surface. Ellenore had been uneasy, they had both been, to be true, having never seen the unending vastness of the blue sky that the humans, elves, and qunari spent their days living under. Stone was strong, stone protected those that lived beneath it, but the sky was like a bubble waiting to be popped, and when it did she was sure their feet would leave the ground, and they’d float up into the never-ending blue.

“Twenty-nine, no, thirty. Thirty days.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“I think-- I think I’m ready to take this off.”

“What? Oh.” Annabelle turned to look at her lover. She had her hand pressed to her cheek, covering the patch that hid the skin below.

“Can-- Will you?”

“Yes, of course-- just-- let me,” she stuttered, reaching her hand out. Ellenore lifted hers away, and Annabelle went to touch the patch, picking it away from her skin, very aware of her blunt fingernails and her dry hands. She slowly peeled it off, Ellenore wincing when the sticky residue of the bandage pulled.

The Casteless brand was much like her own, stark and geometric against the curve of Elle’s cheek, though the ink used was much lighter than the black that marked her skin, probably due to Ellenore’s previous station. 

“Here,” Annabelle said, grabbing her waterskin and wetting her sleeve, gently wiping what remained of the patch off of Ellenore’s skin.

“How does it look?” Ellenore asked, unable to meet Annabelle’s eyes.

“Absolutely beautiful,” Annabelle whispered, leaning over to press a kiss to her cheek, tasting the salt of tears on her lips.

Lady Ellenore Aeducan no longer.

Now, just Ellenore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew!
> 
> So chapter is mainly just used to set up all of our characters within Dragon Age canon, as well as giving me a chance to endlessly headcanon about Minrathous (where's the lore, Bioware). For those of you that are completely lost, I always suggest playing the games, but if that's not available to you, the [Dragon Age Wiki](https://dragonage.fandom.com) is one of the best wikis ever written and includes a metric fuckton of lore from not only the games, but the books, sourcebooks, and comics as well.
> 
> 15K of this story is already written, the rest is being written very quickly and I have an endgame in mind. I'll be posting once a week, so see you next Wednesday.


	2. Though All Before Me Is Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from verse 1:14 of the Canticle of Trials.

Jasper spent the next two days on a rocky ship from Minrathous to Vyrantium in the south. He spent his time there under the deck, talking with the sailors while they were off shift, betting money on dice and cards. Most of them were suspicious of him. Unsurprising, considering his appearance, employment, and general elfiness. But there were others of his kind on board, and many were very keen to talk once the beer had been poured.

As soporati, they cared little about the machinations of the Altus families and their Magisters, but even the name Strauss had been heard by one or two of them who knew a friend who knew another friend. Every elf in Tevinter knew somebody who was a slave, and slaves liked to talk.

Strauss was a new Magister, supposedly, whose name had been recognized as Altus within the last five years, after a very long and eventually successful campaign by the man himself. Originally born into the Laetan class, magical families without the Altus pedigree, after years of research he was finally able to prove his bloodline to one of the original dreamers, and then suddenly everything changed for him.

The rest of Jasper’s time on the merchant’s vessel was spent trying to keep his stomach inside his body. He barely ate over the two days, sticking to water and hard salty crackers as the rough waves of the Nocen threatened to push him over the edge. He never preferred sea travel over a good strong horse, but time was of the essence, and quickness was a term in his contract. If he found the girl and was able to return her within a month’s time he’d earn an extra five hundred gold pieces, and he was keen to buy a new set of armour with that kind of coin.

Taking a ship meant travel time from the north of the Imperium down to its southern border was cut in half. He’d by a horse in Vyrantium, run it ragged until Solas, where he’d pick up another one and cross the Silent Plains with it into Nevarra. From there it was anybody’s guess as to where the slave could have gone, but he hoped she would have decided to stay in the country. The sentiment towards mages there was less strict than in the Free Marches or Orlais, but an escaped Tevinter slave, and the reward money that came with returning her, would capture anyone’s interest.

He paid the captain for his passage, which was more expensive than ideal. As a city, Vyrantium could barely compare to Minrathous’ grandness. It was more of a stop on a trade route, rather than the jewel of the country. Its power was in its marketplace, large and sprawling, with merchants from all over Thedas selling their wares. He didn’t stop to shop around until a fruit merchant selling a bundle of oranges for half price caught his eye. Fruit was rare in his line of work, and oranges were his favourite.

Purchasing a horse was easy. He was even to haggle down the cost, with the garb that he wore and a flash of the daggers strapped to his back. He gave off the aura of someone who could become very dangerous if they did not get what they wanted.

Horse purchased and food secured for the trip to Solas, he left Vyrantium by midday, speeding past the city gate out onto the open road. It would be four days of travel, mostly on dirt road, with the final leg of the journey being made on the Imperial highway. The horse kept pace between a canter and a trot throughout the day, and his legs grew stiff in the saddle. They stopped every hour on so, allowing the horse to drink from the flowing Vyrantium river. Barges and riverboats lazily flowed past, bringing goods deeper into the Imperium countryside.

He slept by the riverside that night, horse tied off to the trunk of a tree he had climbed into. He spread his body out between the branches, not minding whether he was comfortable or not, as years of living on the road had taught him to sleep in whatever environment he was given.

He grabbed an orange from his pack, deftly peeling it in one large peel that he threw to the ground. Separating the fruit into segments, he lifted one to his mouth to take it whole, moaning as the sweet juice of it flooded his mouth after taking a bite. It ran down his chin, soaking into his leather armour.

The next two days were spent following the river, formulating a plan of what to do when he goes into Solas. A new horse was necessary, preferably one better suited for the trek across the Silent Plains. He wouldn’t be able to carry enough water for the two of them, and it was impossible to find any water in the blighted wastes themselves. Food was also a problem, his oranges would eventually run out, and keeping food that was able to survive three days in drenching heat was difficult. His best bet for survival, he knew, was to sign on with a merchant caravan looking for extra protection, though that also gave up any thought of getting to Nevarra as quickly as possible.

On the third day, he crossed under the Imperial Highway that headed east to Perivantium. Almost 100-feet high, the elevated walkway was another of the Imperium’s gifts to the world, stretching across the continent. One could take the highway all the way from Minrathous in the north to Ostagar in the south, though much of the old magics that held the structure together were fading, and many of the more isolated stretches of the highway had basically crumbled into nothing. Here in the Imperium, however, it still held strong, and from the ground, he could see caravans heading in either direction.

He arrived in Solas late in the afternoon. The city was considerably newer than any other in the Imperium, having been built on the backbones of another city that probably existed since Ancient times, only to be destroyed during the First Blight. One only needed to walk to its southern border to see the desolation that the death of the first Archdemon had wrought, green and arable farmland giving way to gray ashen dust, with windstorms that ravished the area day and night. Nothing grew there anymore, and the only things that lived in the wastes were ghasts and wyverns scavenging for their next meal.

He managed to sign up with a caravan of surface-dwarves by the end of the day, a group of them taking armour and lyrium into Nevarra and then onto the Free Marches, no doubt looking to profit from the ongoing conflict. Dwarves, however, were altogether much safer to rave with than humans were, and he was wary of accidentally signing on with a slaver party on the hunt for a Dalish clan to bolster their profits. Dwarves were also looser with their coin, and Maker knows he could have used it. They agreed to provide him with food and water for the trip, and they even had an extra horse for him to ride after their previous bodyguard had been killed by bandits.

He slept past noon the next day, the plan being to travel the plains when the sun went down, resting the shade of the Highway when it was hottest out. He met with the three dwarves and their caravan at the west gate of Solas, taking the road to where the Imperial Highway split to go south.

The leader of their group was a Master Golden, a surface-dwarf most of his life, who travelled with his two children, Imalia and Mitnick, both of whom had never spent a day underground. Jasper could spot little familial resemblance between the three of them, but Golden seemed to dote on his two kids just the same.

“I must admit, Master Heartwood,” Golden began, urging his pony up by Jasper’s horse at the front of the caravan. The sun was just going down as they reached the edge of the Silent Plains, and while Jasper tended to enjoy the _silent_ aspect of the land, he had quickly discovered that Golden himself was a talker, “The… business of the Antivan Crows fascinates me to no end. The political machinations of Antivan Royalty alone must be quite entertaining.”

Jasper scoffed, “You sound like you might enjoy Orlais, Master Golden.”

“Hah! You’ve an insightful mind. The Great Game is interesting, to be sure, but I find that one can only truly enjoy it if they are a player. Personally, I find myself in the habit of viewership rather than participation.”

“You’ll certainly live longer that way.”

“True, very true,” Golden agreed, nodding his head. He was a very animated talker, taking his hands off the reigns of his pony to wave them around. Jasper found him to be quite amusing, “Though you might want to follow your own advice, Master Heartwood, dealing with Magisters might be considered even more of a threat to one’s long life.”

He tightened his grasp around his reigns, looking at the inquisitive dwarf from the corner of his eyes, “Contracts with the Crows are no public matter, Master Golden.”

“Hmmm. No. Forgive me, I’m only curious. It’s a personal flaw of mine.”

He had begun to think Golden was more than he appeared to be, “Tell me, how curious do you find yourself being?”

“I keep my eyes, and ears, open whenever I can.”

“Hm. Have your eyes spotted a young elven woman? White hair, pale skin?”

“Ah. I cannot say that I have, no.”

Jasper grunted.

“Could I ask a question of you, in exchange, of course. I promise I will get the better of myself for the rest of the trip.”

“Fine.”

“Tell me, Master Heartwood, do you find it difficult hunting down you’re own kind on the whims of those who wish to enslave them?”

More than he appeared and much too insightful for his own good.

“Once a Crow, always a Crow, and I do enjoy living.”

“Hm. Yes.”

Jasper kicked his horse forward. He did not speak to Golden again for the rest of the night.

It was smart to travel at night, elves and dwarves sharing the gift of eyesight in the dark. The full moon was out, which was enough to light their path. Jasper took out his bow, keeping an arrow nocked just in case. The only sounds he could hear was the sound of the carts going over the stone, everything past their group was silent, even the ever-shifting wind had grown still in the darkness.

There was something about this place that perturbed him, he was almost ashamed to admit. He had always avoided travel here if he could. There was sorrow here, if you could feel such a thing, and there was loss. Nothing was left.

He took out his third orange, dropping the peel in a trail behind him as they rode on into the night.

* * *

The Comtesse Petronilla Du Price nee Griffith, stood just over five feet tall and weighed 130 pounds when soaking wet. Nevertheless, she struck an imposing figure when she was trying to get what she wanted. Standing on the outskirts of Montsimmard, she stood with her arms crossed, the sparkling hilts of her dual stilettos hanging by her side. Daffodil emulated his mistress to the best of his ability, sitting beside her with a growl forming in his throat.

Victor sighed, “You’re not coming with me.”

“I _speak_ the language,” she said, determinedly.

“I can get by.”

“Yes, but your accent is _atrocious_.”

“This isn’t a negotiation. You stay _here_ , you stay _safe_.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“People are out looking for you--”

“I can be discrete. Look at what I’m wearing!” She said, pointing to herself and her drab appearance, “No one’s going to be looking at me in _this_.”

“Nelli--”

“Victor.”

He sighed once more, “I can’t convince you otherwise?”

“Hmph, no,” she replied, pulling up the hood of her cloak and marching away, Daffodil following loyally after her, “Now come, we are losing the day to petty squabbles.”

He frowned, but soon followed after her.

Montsimmard was another mile’s march away, and with each step he grew increasingly wary, watching the growing crowd around them for anybody who looked too nosy for their own good. They passed through the gates with ease, the guards not bothering to interrupt the flow of people into the city. Nelli kept her hood up, and her eyes looking down, and he stood in front of her, his height blocking her from any wandering eyes.

They definitely stared at _him_ , though, and the watchful eye emblazoned on his breastplate stared back. The Seekers of Truth were rarely seen by the common folk. Before the annulment of the Nevarra Accord, members of his order were once mere whispers, stories of mighty heroes and brave warriors mothers told their children at night. Now, they were scared of him, they skirted around him in fear.

Oh, what the world had become.

The guard presence increased as they drew closer to the marketplace, “I’ll go in and buy supplies, you should lay low,” Victor said, turning to look behind him at Nelli. 

The Comtesse and her hound were nowhere to be found. He could not spot them among the crowd, and they left no sign as to where they had gone.

“Fucking _bards_ ,” he swore under his breath.

* * *

Sycorax and Casey made camp by the Minanter as Annabelle and Ellenore went into to Tantervale to collect their reward. 

The influence of the Imperium had been obvious in all the cities they had visited in the Free Marches, though Tantervale tried it’s best to hide it. On either side of the gates were giant statues of once-mages, holding their staves in their clasped hands, recarved to depict templars holding their mighty swords. The Chantry’s word was law, here, and the changes made to the city’s architecture was a sort of reclamation from the Imperium’s stain.

It was certainly not a safe place for a hedge mage and a qunari.

The Chantry stood in the city’s centre, the tallest building around, streets and alleyways radiating away from its holy sight. It stood on top of a hill, a curved path wrapping around it. All of the human’s places of worship were like this, she had begun to understand, built to rise towards their Maker, proclaiming their piousness for the world to know.

In Tantervale, they did so in other ways as well. The city guardsmen, posted in pairs every few feet or so, wore the Chantry’s mark on their breastplate. Commonfolk gathered around Chanters who proclaimed the Chant of Light to all who were near. 

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” the Chanter spoke to his audience as the two dwarves passed by what was once the Circle of Magi. The building had been destroyed, the stone crumbling to the ground. A group of guardsmen stood with the older woman, each one with a hand on the pommel of their weapon. Behind them stood a large gallows, with six bodies hanging from their nooses, each of their heads covered with canvas sacks. Flies hovered over the corpses, attracted to the foul stench.

Annabelle hazarded a glance of them, all six were wearing colourful robes of yellow and blue. One was noticeably smaller than the other. The Chanter caught her eye and she hastily looked away.

“Foul and corrupt are they Who have taken His gift And turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world Or beyond.”

She held her fists tight, barely holding back a scream. Elle grabbed her hand, and they hurried on to the Chantry.

The Chanter’s Board was as full as it had been when they had last visited three days earlier. Ellenore went to the present Chanter to collect their reward, handing in the slip of parchment that declared the amount they were due for clearing darkspawn from a nearby farm.

“Let him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day,” the young Chanter said as he began to count out the promised twenty gold pieces. Ellenore thanked him humbly and went to Annabelle’s side.

“Is there anything else?” She asked.

Annabelle looked over the job board. Her reading was still slow, but she could get through them all. Most were notices for escaped mages, the Chantry contracting out the work for hunting them down. Those tended to be the most substantial, boasting rewards of almost fifty gold pieces, but Annabelle hesitated to take them. Others were smaller, simpler tasks, collecting herbs and delivering packages, but the rewards were small, and not enough to sustain a party of four for very long.

There was one job, however, posted at the bottom corner of the board. It was folded so that one could barely read it unless they reached out to smooth it over. She did so, holding the parchment in her hands. It read:

_Jenny ruhkwires frends!_

_The nayborhood boys hit us with stiks_

_And ty us with ther rop_

_We shall thro rocks at them_

_Join the rebellion!_

_(PS wer red so i noe yur a frend)_

_(PPS we fite at the docks at midnite)_

“How about this one?” She asked Ellenore, pulling the parchment from its pin and handing it to her.

“Really?”

“It sounds… interesting.”

“It sounds like we might get robbed.”

“I think there’s more to it. That being said, if someone _does_ try to rob us, you can just shoot them.”

* * *

Nelli snuck through the familiar alleys and backways of Montsimmard, sticking closely to the shadows as she was once taught. Daffodil stuck closely behind her, staying close to his mistress and following her every step. It had been years since she had last visited the city, and yet she still remembered it’s hidden secrets from the nights she spent running the same pathways she did now, enshrouded in darkness. At one time in her life, it was the only thing that kept her going.

__

Issac had recruited her into a bardic apprenticeship almost a year into her marriage when she had finally begun to see her new husband’s true face. Their engagement had been a short one. He had come to Kirkwall with the rumours that he was looking for a bride and all the noble ladies flocked to his side. The entire affair sounded magical, married to a Comte, attending Orlesian balls, playing in the Great Game, there was nothing to compare with it in the Free Marches. When he proposed to her, she said yes, and then he left to plan their wedding with a promise that she’d follow him in four months’ time.

__

She hadn’t seen Isaac in nearly ten years.

__

It was finally time for a visit.

__

Issac lived in-residence with the Marquis de Montsimmard, the ruler of the city. She knew how to sneak into his personal apartments by heart, happy to see that the large, old tree whose branches drifted by one of his windows was still there. She told Daffodil to stand on guard and the mabari gave an excited jump before following. She scaled the tree, though with not the same amount of ease as she did when she was younger, and balanced on one of the wider branches to Issac’s study window, pulling the secret latch that opened it from the outside.

__

Once she was in, she made herself at home, walking into his study and sitting in the chair to go through the documents on his desk. He was composing some new music, apparently, and he had recent correspondence with the Empress’ magical advisor. She found another letter from a member of the College of Clerics discussing the Divine’s thoughts on the increasing conflict between her lost templars and the rebelling mages, and Issac had already begun to pen his reply.

__

She put her feet up on the desk, leaning back onto the chair’s hind legs as she went through the other papers he kept there. This was how he found her when he walked in twenty minutes later.

__

“Maker-- Nelli,” he startled, suddenly composing himself when he recognized her. He quickly closed the door, locking it behind him, “How are you doing, my dear?”

__

“I’m not here for pleasantries, Issac.”

__

“No, I suppose you’re not.”

__

“You’ve heard, then?”

__

“It’s been more than a week, dear, gossip moves fast through the Empire, we both know that.”

__

“Even faster when you’re the one spreading it.”

__

“What are you--”

__

In a flash, her hand went to the hilt of one of her stilettos, which quickly embedded itself in the wall three inches away from Issac’s head.

__

“You _knew_ ,” Nelli seethed, just barely keeping herself from talking above a whisper. She pushed back the chair, catching it before it fell to the floor, stalking over to her mentor to push his body up against the wall. Her other stiletto went to the curve of his throat.

__

“You knew _everything_. You knew what he _did_ , you knew why I-- I-- how could you?”

__

“Oh, my dear Nelli, I have never wished you any harm.”

__

“It _had_ to be you, you were in court that day--”

__

“Your head knows it wasn’t me, Nelli,” he interrupted her, “But your heart wishes it wasn’t so.”

__

“No--” She said on the verge of tears, shaking her head to banish the thought away.

__

“I warned you against her, no one plays the Game like a Rochelle.”

__

The only words that came to mind are Antivan, and Orlesian, and a smattering of Tevene as she swore up a storm. She retrieved her stilettos and sheathed, pacing around the room as she worked through the thought of the woman who betrayed her.

__

“What will you do?” Issac asked.

__

“We’re heading to Ferelden.”

__

“Not Kirkwall?”

__

She scoffed, “I won’t allow my sister to get involved with this mess. She knows nothing.”

__

“I am sorry, my dear. You were my brightest star.”

__

“I should leave.”

__

“Yes, you should,” he brought her into his arms, resting his chin on top of her head, “Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.”

__

“Trials?”

__

“The Maker only tests those who are worthy of his light. You will come out on top, I am sure. Now go.”

__

She kissed his cheek and stole back into the night.

__


	3. Mingled Blood and Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title from verse 8:26 of the Canticle of Threnodies

Down by the Tantervale docks, Ellenore sat on top of a barrel as Annabelle paced back and forth. They had torn up one of her old dresses, bright crimson velvet, and each had wrapped a length of the fabric around their upper arms, proving their ‘friendship’ according to the job notice.

The moon shone high in the sky, reflecting off the soft waves of the Minanter. The docks were quiet and isolated, and as they were standing there Annabelle had begun to grow increasingly worried that they were about to be robbed.

She was about to call it a night when a voice called out from the darkness.

“Are these two friends I’ve seen before me? Have you come to be Jenny’s friends?” said the male voice speaking in a high-pitched tone.

“Um, yes?” Annabelle shouted back into the darkness, looking around for where the voice had come from.

“Well good then, that note has been up for ages!” The voice spoke once more, though this time from just behind her. Annabelle jumped, hand going for her warhammer as she turned around, stunned to see that a human had somehow snuck up on the _both_ of them.

He had long, dark, curly hair, held back with the bright red jester’s hat that he wore on top of his head. When he saw them, he bowed down low to the ground, the bells on his hat jingling with the movement, “This one is X, a fellow friend.”

Annabelle relaxed, but just barely, “Hello… X. We found your note. Do you have a job for us?”

“I do, I do!” He said excitedly, pointing a finger to his hat, “I have it here! Just a moment--”

He held up his finger, gesturing for them to wait as his expression fell to concentration. He closed his eyes, lips moving over words that he did not speak aloud. Finally, he seemed to have remembered what he was supposed to say, speaking aloud as if there was an audience of more than just two standing before him.

_A sisterhood of mages_

_A trio of three_

_At the Chantry they face_

_A dawning tranquillity_

_Save them you must_

_From this awful fate_

_And meet the collective_

_Outside the south gate_

“Impressive,” Annabelle said, unsure of what to say after hearing the rhyme while still attempting to piece it together in her mind, “Did you make that up yourself?”

He sighed, pressing his hand to his chest, looking genuinely pleased with the compliment, “I did! _Thank_ you for noticing!”

She chuckled, “You’re welcome.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Will you take the job? Because if you don’t, I’m going to have to kill you,” he said, utter seriousness suddenly crossing his voice as his face turned dour.

She startled, hand grasping her warhammer once more, “Uh, yes. We will take the job. Take the mages to the Chantry--”

“What?” He asked, “No, don’t do that. Did you listen at all?”

“Uh--”

“We’re to save a group of three mages from the Rite of Tranquility, which will take place at Chantry before dawn tomorrow,” Ellenore stepped in, saving Annabelle from making a fool of herself, “We’re to bring them to the southern gate, where another group will take them further.”

“Yes, that,” Annabelle agreed, nodding her head enthusiastically, “We will do that.”

“Excellent,” X replied, “Thank you, Annabelle, Lady Ellenore, Jenny counts you as true friends. We’ll await you tomorrow.”

He bowed once more, the bells on his hat ringing once more, and was gone within the blink of an eye.

Annabelle whipped her head around her surroundings, too surprised at his sudden disappearance to question how he had known both of their names.

* * *

After three days and nights of gruelling heat and insistent travelling companions, Golden let Jasper go upon the mere sight of grey dust giving way to green fields and fertile land. After being paid his due, Jasper kicked his horse into a gallop, racing down the Highway, intent on crossing the Minanter before daybreak. Nevarra City was due west on the south side of the river, another two day’s travel at most.

His pace slowed as he reached the crossing, a large stone bridge that spanned over the rushing water of the Minanter river beneath it. Nevarran soldiers manned the bridge, stopping travellers with carts and caravans to look over their good and collect taxes before allowing them across. The line to enter the country was known to last for hours when trade was heavy, merchants lining the Highway for almost a mile to wait.

Luckily, the early time meant the crossing was nearly empty. A Nevarran soldier stopped him as he approached, holding his pike at the ready until Jasper brought his horse to a stop. The soldier spoke in a clipped tone, warily staring up at his mask as understanding slowly dawned on his face, quickly followed by a flash of fear. He asked for the toll, hand gripping his pike as Jasper reached for the five gold and threw it down, urging his horse back into a canter to leave the crossing behind him.

Leaving the Highway once more, he kept to the riverside, keeping his eye out for a calmer spot in the water to bathe in. After four days of sweating in the Plains, his armour was beginning to smell, and the leather chafed against his skin. The river wouldn’t be as comfortable as a bathhouse in Nevarra City, but he wasn’t willing to wait the extra day.

He found his spot just after midday, pulling his horse off to the side and tying it down to the trunk of a tree. For the first time since Minrathous, he ritualistically took off his armour, starting with his crow’s beak mask. The leather left harsh red marks on his pale skin where it had worn and chafed against it. He stood on the riverbank in his underclothes, stretching out his body without the restriction of the armour. He ruffled through his pack, reaching down into the bottom for a carefully wrapped bar of lavender soap, and walked over to the river.

Dipping a toe in, he found the water to be cold, but it did not turn him away. He steeled himself, bringing himself into the river step-by-step until only his head was above the water. He held a breath and submerged himself, closing his eyes as he floated under the surface, breaking it once he finally needed another gasp of air. He didn’t waste time putting soap to his skin, quickly cleaning away the fine layer of sweat and sand that had accumulated in the recent weeks. He shivered when he finally left the water, clean but cold, wrapping himself up in his cloak to dry.

As his shivering calmed, he reached into his pack for the last of the oranges he had bought in Vyrantium. It had shrivelled during his trek across the Plains, and it’s skin cracked into flakes as he peeled it away, but the fruit itself was still sweet and juicy. He ate it as he dried off, savouring each segment as best as he could before it was all gone. 

Two days later, he came to Nevarra City, which was nestled among a range of low-lying mountains on the south side of the Minanter. Upon approaching from the west, a new traveller to the city could assume that it was larger than it actually was, as they would see hundreds and hundreds of shining lights extending up from the valley to the hills above. Those who had visited before, however, that this city was not made for the living, but the dead. The Grand Necropolis lay just outside of the city, and the only living left there were the Mortalitasi, mages who summoned spirits and stuck them in the mummified corpses of all those who had passed. Jasper stayed as far away from it as he could.

He always felt on edge whenever a job took him to Nevarra, the hair at the back of his neck standing from his skin when he entered the city. Like Minrathous, magic permeated this city down to it’s stone and steel, but it felt different, somehow. It felt wrong.

He kept himself as hidden as possible amongst the crowd, pulling his hood up to cover his head, keeping away from prying eyes. Marble statues of Pentaghasts and Van Markhams, famous generals and dragon slayers, stared down at him from their plinths, the great men and women of ages past regarding the cruel assassin in their midsts. Their eyes followed him everywhere, through street markets, past parks and public theatres, through noble districts and elven slums.

And, he had hoped that someone else was following too.

She caught him unawares while he watched a puppeteer perform for a group of rambling children from afar.

“Hello handsome,” she whispered into his air. Deft fingers suddenly went to the ribbon that tied his mask around his head and in an instant they were gone, the crow’s beak falling from his face. He jolted to catch it, remembering to hold it back up to his face before he turned to look for her.

She was gone. The alleyway behind him was empty. She always liked to keep him on his toes.

He groaned, looking around once more to see if he was being followed before he ducked into the alley. He stalked through it, one hand grasping the hilt of a dagger. They were behind a tavern, and he could smell the scent of piss and stale beer as he made his past a group of large crates, quickly looking behind them to see if she was hiding there.

“It’s been a while, huh?”

He startled, the hilt of the dagger suddenly leaving his hand as he turned and threw it before he could think about what he was doing. He dreaded that he hurt her before his vision cleared and he saw her, sitting on top of one of the crates, carefully looking over his dagger that had been embedded in the wood just below her.

An Antivan Crow scared by an elven street rat with a makeshift bow and a penchant for nosiness. His former masters would _not_ be happy with him.

“Chloe,” he growled, walking over to retrieve his dagger.

“Jasper,” she greeted, “Surprised to see me?” 

He wasn’t, she always showed up one way or another, “I, uh, thought you were in Ferelden.”

“That was four months ago.”

“Was it?” He asked, absentmindedly checking his dagger to see that it hadn’t been damaged, “I must have lost track of time.”

He hadn’t. He knew exactly how long it had been.

“Like you lost your key to my bedroom?”

And there it was.

“What?” He feigned not hearing.

“Mh,” Chloe sighed, not falling for his bullshit, “Business then? I’ve no time for the other thing.”

“Uh, right-- business. I’m… looking for someone. I was wondering if some of your _friends_ had seen her.”

She raised her eyebrow, “A _girl_? Should I be jealous?”

“Please stop,” he groaned, “It’s for a contract, obviously.”

“Do I want to know?”

“No.”

“Right,” she swallowed, “Prices have gone up. My friends and I have been doing… important work, and--”

“Smuggling mages is getting expensive, huh?” He interrupted.

She glared at him, “Yes.”

“How much?”

“Fifty.”

He winced. That meant using all of what Golden had paid him, as well as digging into his own savings, “Deal. You get paid when I get the information I need.”

“Fine. What am I looking for?”

“Elven woman. Pale skin, white hair.”

Chloe nodded, “Go buy a drink, Jasper. You need to loosen up a little.”

And with that, she left.

* * *

“Truly, this is the best plan you could have come up with?” Casey groaned from behind Annabelle, the Qunari forced to bend over in the short height of the sewer tunnels. She had wrapped a scarf around her face to guard herself from the stench, though it didn’t seem to be working well for her.

“It’s better than trying to get you two through the front door,” Ellenore replied.

“And I don’t think it smells too bad, Case,” Sycorax chimed in.

“Didn’t you used to live in a swamp?” Casey said.

“Hmph.”

Annabelle stood at the front of the group, pausing them when they came to a split in the tunnel system. She looked to each side, back and forth, finally settling on the left passage and beckoning to the others to follow her.

“D’you even know where you’re going, Annie?” Casey asked.

“Well, no, not really. But I spent my entire life underground, and I trust the Stone to guide us.”

“Really?” Casey sounded like she didn’t believe her.

“I got Elle and I out of the Deep Roads, this isn’t that much different. It’s probably easier, even, much less darkspawn,” she said, taking the next right without hesitation.

“No, darkspawn should not worry us,” Sycorax said, “Templars, however, are a much different story. Should these mages be guarded, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help.”

“Hm,” Casey grunted, “Syc and I have fought with a few before. They can be zealous bastards. Remind me of home. They all die the same, though.”

Annabelle winced, “We’re not trying to get _anyone_ killed here tonight.”

“Your optimism is always amusing, Annie. We’ll see what the Templars think of it.”

She paused in front of the tunnel splitting into three different directions, then took the right passage. She walked faster than before, picking up the pace. They had left with a couple of hours to spare before dawn, but worry told her that getting to the Chantry sooner rather than later would be best.

“For what they’re doing, they probably deserve it. Death, for a mage, would be better than Tranquility,” Sycorax said.

“Dwarves know little about magic,” Ellenore said, “I’ve only heard of the Rite, is it truly that bad?”

“The Fade flows through me, Lady Ellenore. It whispers words of prophecy into my ears, it guides my hand during battle, it heals my hurts afterward. I walk it’s pathways when I dream. To be cut from it, it would be like blinding me. Worse, I’d feel nothing.”

“But you’d still be _alive_.”

“If you can’t feel the world around you, can’t interact with it as you once did, would you still be alive? Over a hundred mages were killed at the Dairsmuid Circle just last year, men and women, young girls learning to become seers as I once did. I consider it a blessing.”

“But, they’re gone.”

“Dead, not gone. Their spirits have returned to the Fade, such is the natural order of things. They are the ones that guide me now.”

“I always thought the surface would be better,” Annabelle said, “The mere _idea_ of leaving the caste system behind… seems like they just call something else here.”

“Hmph, the Qun’s not that much better either,” said Casey, “People are just people. Doesn’t matter what hat they hide behind, they’re all the same.”

They fell silent as Annabelle continued to lead them. In truth, she had been second-guessing their escape to the surface ever since they arrived. All she wanted was for Elle to be safe and happy, but--

A shiver ran down her spine, and she jolted in place. Looking upwards, she squinted her eyes and saw a metal grate in the ceiling of the tunnels above her.

“We’re here.”

Casey pushed the grate up, her head just barely poking out above the floor, “Seems clear.”

“Bring Elle up first,” Annabelle whispered.

Casey held down her hands, “M’lady,” helping Ellenore boost herself up onto her shoulders and through the grate.

“I’ll look ahead,” Elle said.

“Elle!” Annabelle whispered after her.

“She’s gone,” Casey said.

“Damn. Get me up there.” She handed Casey her warhammer first, then climbed up through the grate just like Elle had done before. Casey followed afterward, holding a hand down to pull Sycorax up. With a tap of her staff, the hemlock branch produced a swarm of ethereal fireflies, lighting up the darkness around them in a warm glow.

The best words to describe their surroundings was “dungeon”, though Annabelle had no idea why a place of worship should require such facilities. Nevertheless, the room they were in held two cells separated by a narrow hall. The entire room stank like the sewer, its floors sloping slightly downward toward the grate in the floor. Both of the cells were bolted shut, and Annabelle could see several sets of shackles attached to the walls inside each of them.

“This way,” Ellenore whispered, her head poking into the doorway that led to the rest of the basement, “I heard voices.”

Annabelle followed her, trying to keep her steps as quiet as Elle, though she did not have the same grace that her lover displayed. Her hands were beginning to sweat around the leather grips of her warhammer, her heart banging in her chest. Casey breathed heavily behind her, holding back the strength of her rage until it was finally needed.

As they approached the voices, Annabelle could hear it more clearly, a single voice, a woman, obviously chanting some sort of prayer, “....I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except your abse--”

“Shut the fuck up!” Someone interrupted her, the sound of metal clanging against metal echoed through the dark halls, quickly followed by a desperate cry of grief “I’ve had enough, mage.”

“Do you not enjoy the word of your Maker, Ser Knight?” Another voice asked, accented, not a Marcher.

“Not out of the mouths of your kind, _Maleficar_ ,” the man snarled, “Those words become poison on your tongue.”

“Calm down, Reynault, they’ll be gone soon.” Another man tried to calm him down.

The group of four stopped in their tracks. All looking toward Annabelle, she counted down from three fingers, to two, to--

Ellenore moved first, sliding into the room on her knees, her bow at the ready to send an arrow towards the two heavily armoured templars. They reacted quickly, just barely ducking out of the way to miss her shot. Casey and Annabelle followed in after, each running to engage with one of their foes.

“Mage!” shouted Reynault as he spied Sycorax behind them, holding her hemlock staff. Annabelle watched his eyes suddenly glowed with blue holy light, and a burst of blue energy burst from his body like a wave of rage.

She could have called it magic if she didn’t know any better. She had felt Sycorax’s magic before, the cool caress of a healing spell that left her feeling calm and lethargic. Syscorax’s magic had its own sense of life to it, but the templar’s purge only left an impression of absence in its wake.

Sycorax moaned like she had taken a wound to the gut, dropping her staff and falling to her knees.

“Syc!” Casey called out, taking a step toward her. The templar she had been fighting took the moment of hesitation to run down the hallway, no doubt to return with some reinforcements.

Annabelle turned to look at Reynault, who seemed to forget she even existed in the wake of seeing the magical threat. She couldn’t tell how old he was, but he had a burn scar on his face. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, widened in what she could only describe as an expression of abject fear and extreme hatred.

With no outlet for her rage, Casey took it out on him, the blade of her battle-axe embedding itself through the metal breastplate of his armour. Blood welled from his lips as a final choked gasp of pain escaped with his last breath. He crumpled to the ground in front of her.

“Elle-- the-- uh-- can you?” She tried to say, gesturing towards the cell where three mages were standing. All were women, one in robes of navy and red, and the other two in dirtied gold. In the low light, she could see the remnants of a fight written on their faces, bruised cheeks, and split lips, and tiredness in their eyes that spoke of sleepless and stressful nights.

“I would presume you are here to rescue us?” The woman in the navy robes asked, looking down at Ellenore as she attempted to pick the lock.

“Yes, that’s us.”

“And how do you think you’re doing so far?” She asked, looking towards where the templar had run before. Annabelle could hear the stomping of metal greaves against stone approaching them from down the hall.

She sighed, “The best we can.”

With a final exclamation of success, Elle’s lockpicks clicked into place and the cell door opened on squeaky hinges, “This way,” she motioned back to the path they had come.

“We must take back our possessions,” the mage argued.

“No, we’re _leaving_ ,” Annabelle interjected.

“Hester’s right, we’ll be much more help to you with our staves,” said one of the others.

“And I wouldn’t mind a drop of lyrium,” said the third.

“Well, where is it, then?” Annabelle asked.

They all pointed down the hall.

“Damn.”

* * *

Jasper sighed, crossing his arms as he looked at the wall in front of him. The walls of the Grand Necropolis were almost twenty feet high, made of smooth black stone, and impossible to climb in most places on the perimeter. Chloe had pointed out this specific location as somewhere that was _less_ impossible to breach.

He had done as she asked, found a dark corner in a tavern to sulk in for a couple of hours, paying for ale that he never actually drank. She returned by dawn with the knowledge he desired, and a warning that he wouldn’t like what she had to say.

After she told him what she had learned, he had to agree.

There had been a sighting of what had only been described as a “pale spectre” hovering over the walls by a group of neerdowell kids just a fortnight ago. Whatever had been seen going _in_ to the necropolis had yet to be seen coming _out_ , which meant she was likely to still be inside. Which meant he had to go into a place infested with thousands of the animate dead under the cover of darkness, all to find one escaped slave.

He studied the wall carefully, looking to find cracks in the stone, places where he could place his hands and feet and pull himself over it’s height. Once he had figured out a path, he gave himself a running start, running up the first few feet of the wall to wedge his fingers into small hold. Switching his hands, he reached up to the next one, pulling himself up further while he put his foot in the previous hold. He was tired by the time he had made it over the wall, but at least getting down seemed to be less fraught. There was a short leap across a gap to the roof of a mausoleum, and then he could make his way down from there.

He had yet to come up with a plan for how he was going to get the girl _out_ of the necropolis once he had found her.

Even with the moon covered by a sheet of clouds, he could still quite clearly in the near darkness. On this night, however, his elven sight was assisted by the faint green glow that permeated the necropolis, although he did not understand where such a glow could be coming from. His very little knowledge of magic attributed it to the dark arts of the Mortalitasi, but that was just a guess and not a very educated one at that.

His feet hit the ground with a soft groan, and then his daggers were instantly in his hands as he surveyed his surroundings. Having never been in the necropolis before, he had no way of telling where he was, or where he should start looking. Around him were the mausoleums of the dead, some large and intricately built, others more simple looking, no doubt meant to portray the status of their residents. He happily noticed that none of the walking dead seemed to be around this area of the necropolis, but he told himself to keep on guard for anything that moved, especially if it turned out to be his pale spectre.

There was no use in taking his time, so he started himself at a quick pace, all the while keeping the stealth that his guild was known for. He found the shadows and kept to them, deftly navigating the labyrinth that was the crisscrossing pathways of the necropolis. He could keep a simple map of the place, remembering certain landmarks that he had passed by as he made his way through. As time moved on, however, he slowly began to realize how large the necropolis truly was, and began to doubt if he would even be able to traverse it in a single night, let alone attempt to find someone who truly did not want to be found. And if she had been here for so long, then perhaps she knew it better than him. Perhaps she found a place he would never think to look.

As the night continued, the clouds gave way to the sight of a near-full moon. He was slowly growing tired, but he still continued on. He had had a few encounters, now, with the denizens of the necropolis, skeletons that slowly staggered along as if being controlled by the strings of a puppeteer. They did not seem to notice him, if only due to the fact that he kept his distance, pausing his search to watch and stare as the skeletons walked by until he continued. They had not shown interest in him yet, and he did not want to give them a reason to do so.

As he rose through the pathways of the necropolis, he could see a view of Nevarra City spread out beneath him, quiet and still. Unlike the dead, the city was asleep tonight, not yet the time of year for one of its famous festivals to occur. He wished he could join it in rest, the weariness of travel setting into the depth of his bones. Looking up ahead, he could see a small domed structure that stood out compared to all the rest. It did not look like any of the marble mausoleums that surrounded it and was more of a ruin than anything else. The roof was partially caved in, and there was a large hole in the wall. He began to walk toward it, deciding that if it was void of skeletons than it could be a good place to sit and rest for a short time.

He approached it without the careful stealth that he had employed throughout the night, resigning himself to the fact that he would just have to continue his search when he could focus. If she felt safe here, he doubted she would leave, and if she did then he could always ask for more help from Chloe and her friends.

He went through the hole in the wall, steadying himself on it as he walked over uneven rubble. Inside, the structure was circular, with various glyphs and runes carved into the walls. Looking up through the caved-in roof, he could see the stars of the night sky carved into the stone above.

Some type of observatory, then. Old. A relic of the Imperium, most likely.

Looking to the other side of the room, he saw a lump of tattered cloth laid out on the floor, and a ragged sack leaning up against the wall. Walking closer, he also noticed the remnants of a small fire. Placing a hand near the charcoal, it appeared to still be warm.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one to think that this was a good place to rest.

His senses immediately went into overdrive, slipping back into alertness as he tightened his grip on his daggers, jumping back against the wall of the observatory, and back into the shadows. He scanned the room once more, reassuring himself that he had not missed that someone else was in the room. He relaxed, though only a little, once he was sure that he was alone. If this was hers, and it was extremely likely that it _was_ , then all he needed to do was wait for her to return.

He exited the observatory and found a group of bushes nearby that he could hide in and watch. While he considered himself a patient man, this was not the type of patience he preferred. There was an art to his professions, the art of waiting until the correct time to strike, of learning a mark’s habits and schedule until you found an opening that you could exploit. Sometimes it could take weeks, even months to find it, but that was just the thrill of it all. The time it took for his mark to finally appear was, comparatively, much shorter, but it did not feel as such.

He could see why the kids called her a ghost, for she practically glowed in the light of the moon, her white dress and pale skin giving her an ethereal appearance. She didn’t seem to be uncomfortable in this place, walking along the pathway holding a bundle of something in her arms. She wore a hood, which covered most of her face, but if he squinted he could make out waves of white hair tumbling from beneath it, barely concealing a bright, metal collar around her throat.

She went into the observatory the way that he had, gracefully stepping over the rubble without needing to steady herself. He waited for a moment, then flitted to follow her, keeping his footsteps quiet. He moved his daggers into a reverse hold in his hands, intending to knock her out with the butt of his weapons.

Pressing against the outer wall of the observatory, he peered in to watch her. She kneeled on the floor, laying her bundle of things on the ground. She then went to the remnants of her fire, pulling out a small knife that she kept in a leather sheath at her waist. She raised her hand over the coals and brought the blade of the knife to her skin. Blood dripped onto the remnants of the fire below and sizzled on the wood. As the blood flowed, the sizzling grew louder, until smoke appeared from it, and Jasper watched in dawning fear as a fire slowly grew from nothing in front of his eyes.

Blood magic.

He had to hold back a swear, several of them in fact, at the Crows, at himself, and at Magister Strauss, who had certainly failed to mention one very specific detail about his escaped slave.

He had always had a quiet fascination with magic, as he did with most things that he knew very little about, but even that was enough to know that he should fear it. Chantry stories of Maleficar, those who used blood to power their magic rather then lyrium, were legendary, and a sure sign of evil and damnation in the eyes of the Maker. The Imperium itself was known for its not-so-well-kept secret of practicing the art, and if he had known that the slave had any magical capability whatsoever, he wouldn’t have taken the contract at all.

His mind raced with thoughts of how he could prevent himself from dying, at the hand of his mark, or Strauss, or even the Crows themselves. Failing to complete a contract was basically a death sentence, and even if he disappeared to the farthest reaches of Thedas the Crows would still find him. He could contest the contract, he knew, as the Crows took them seriously, and he had not been all the information needed to correctly complete his task, but he had no doubt that if he did so he would be quickly silenced by a very angry, and a very powerful, Magister.

All that left him with one final choice: attempting to knock out the blood mage, getting her out of the necropolis before nightfall, then travelling another two weeks to return her to her master, all the while she bitterly plotted out his death.

Nothing was looking good for him, so in the absence of any sort of plan he continued to watch her.

The bundle she had been carrying was actually a pair of rabbits, both dead. He watched as she skinned them with her knife in front of the fire. She moved as if she knew what she was doing, holding the knife in her hands and bringing it to the skin of the rabbit without hesitation. She did not balk at the blood, and he doubted that it even meant anything to her anymore. After she was down, she put one of the rabbits on a makeshift spit, and watched as it began to cook.

He did not know what to do. He could take her by surprise, sure, and he doubted that she was in any sort of shape for a prolonged physical fight, but then what? The near future was suddenly filled with uncertainties that he did not have the time, or ability, to plan for at the moment. The best path right now was to leave, he believed, and come back when he knew more.

After he made the decision, he spared one last glance at his quarry, who was patiently applying a poultice to her wound, washing it out with water, and wrapping it with a clean bandage. He watched her for a short moment, then moved to back away, a piece of rubble that he had been standing on suddenly dislodging under his feet, rolling away down the hill of stone beneath it.

She jolted at the noise, standing up to look directly at him, daggers in hand and stalking her in the night. Bright blue eyes met his in the darkness, and Jasper watched as sudden fear turned to cold determination.

Within a moment, the knife was in her hand once more.

“No wait--” he yelled, dropping his daggers to the ground and bringing his hands up in front of his face.

The blade bit into the skin of her forearm, and from the burst of blood, lightning began to arc across her skin. Her eyes glowed with cold energy, and before he could get another word out, she raised her hand against him, the arc of electricity leaping from the tips of her fingers.

The pain from the jolt was indescribable as it flew him several feet through the air. His body rolled over on the ground several times. He breathed heavily through the pain, groaning with each new impact, but he could not focus, his vision blacking in and out.

He fell unconscious to the smell of his own burning skin, and the cool touch of fingertips against his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Eva!
> 
> I love a good meet-cute.


	4. In Blackest Envy Were Demons Born

For the three days since they had left Montisimmard, the weather seemed to directly reflect the Comtesse's dour mood. Rain poured from the sky without respite, turning the Exalted Plains into neverending fields of mud and grime. It slowed their pace down to a crawl, which made their situation all the more miserable than it already was. Mud coated the shining plates of his greaves, his armour creaking loudly with every step he took. Walking was tiring, each time he placed his foot down it would sink deep into the ground, and with a quiet groan, he would have to pull it out again. Nelli wasn’t faring much better, water had certainly soaked through the leather of her boots, and grime caked onto the hem of her cloak. She walked with quiet frustration, Daffodil keeping pace beside her.

She hadn't talked much since they had left Montisimmard either, which was certainly odd behaviour for the well-known court socialite. The day she had disappeared from his watch she had been gone only a couple of hours before she found him on the edge of the city with the supplies they needed already purchased. At the time, he could sense her distraught, but thought it impolite to pry for as social as she could be Nelli had also always been intensely private, especially when it came to her own emotions. He let it go, hoping that she would eventually work through it, or talk about it if she needed to. But whatever she was feeling had continued to be left unsaid.

By what Victor had assumed was the afternoon of the third day -- time was difficult to discern without being able to see the sun -- he had gone half-insane with it all. The dreariness that surrounded them, the constant rain, not to mention the exhaustion that finally began to set in after two nights of very little sleep. By the time the ruins were visible in the rain, he had already begun a silent prayer to the Maker for reprieve.

They were elvish, probably hundreds of years old, sunken partway into the ground with a staircase that went down even further. Nelli hesitated at the top, looking down into the darkness, “This better not be a crypt.”

“Does it matter? It’s dry. And warm.”

“But _skeletons_ , Victor.”

He chuckled, “Don’t worry, Comtesse, I’ll protect you.”

He descended the stairs first, pressing his hand against the wall and stepping carefully as it grew darker and darker around him. Pausing at the bottom, he looked around him, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light when a sickly green glow suddenly washed over them. Nelli jumped behind him, trying to muffle her scream into the palm of her hand.

“What’s that?” She asked.

Victor looked over to where the light was coming from, a brazier attached to the wall filled with what could only be described as bright green fire, “Veilfire, I think.”

“What?” 

“The Veil is thin here,” He walked over to the brazier, lifting it from its holder on the wall, “We might have to worry about skeletons after all.”

“Andrastre’s tits,” Nelli muttered under her breathe, walking after Victor as he led them deeper into the underground ruin.

As far as he could tell, there was no dead buried here, just spiders, and cobwebs, and other remnants of history. The staircase led down into a long hallway, which in turn lead into a large inner chamber. Looking around, Victor was surprised to find a stack of chopped wood logs leaning against the far wall, along with several crates of what he hoped were supplies.

“The Dalish must stop here, on occasion,” Victor said.

“Thank the Maker.”

While he started the fire, she removed her sopping cloak, wringing it out in the corner before laying it on the floor. As the fire began to catch, she began the process of removing her leather armour, groaning as she peeled it off until she was left in just a padded undershirt and riding pants, “Ugh, I never want to wear armour again after this. Say what you will about corsets, but at least I look _good_ in them. And the _chafing_.”

“At least you’re not carrying around fifteen pounds of plate,” he said, copying her and removing his breastplate, sighing as the weight he had been carrying was finally gone, rolling his shoulders out when he did so. They each placed their respective pieces of armour close to the fire, hoping that it would dry out over time.

Food was the same had it had been for the past couple of nights: hard bread and smoked jerky, but from the way both of them moaned as they ate one might have thought it was a twelve-course meal from the Winter Palace itself. Nelli sighed after she was done, resting her back against the wall behind her, stretching her legs out on the floor. Daffodil lay next to her, placing his large head on her knee, happily grumbling when she scratched him behind the ear.

“I’m tired, Victor.”

“We both are, Nelli.”

“Who would have thought that it would all turn out like this. A noble’s daughter and a merchant’s son, now a murderous Comtesse and a disgraced Seeker.”

“I wouldn’t say disgraced. Ser Victor Temple, the _anarchist_ Seeker, now that has a good ring to it.”

She smiled, which was victory enough for him, “Of all the things I thought you would do with your life, becoming a Seeker wasn’t one of them.”

“I always aim to defy expectations.”

She chuckled, “Well it worked, certainly.”

“What did you think I’d do?”

“Well get married, for one.”

If he had been drinking something, he would have spat it out by now, “ _Married_?”

“It’s what noble-daughters and merchant-sons are supposed to _do_ , Victor. I can’t imagine what your father said when you told him you were to take the vows--”

“Need I remind you that none of those vows contain any mention of _chastity_.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she replied, a knowing smile curling onto her face, “Still when your only child leaves the family legacy behind to become a Templar, and then disappears for years to be a Seeker. You ever wonder what happened to all that money?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve honestly never thought about it.”

“No need for mankind’s vices with the Maker in your life?”

“No, I--” he started, lifting his head to look up at her. He had forgotten what this had been like, the two of them together like this, wasting the hours away as they had done in their youth. Almost 25 years with only the rare correspondence via letter, and yet it had only taken them a couple of weeks of travel to fall back into it again. So much had happened, to both of them, but they hadn’t changed so much to be complete strangers to each other. She still looked the same as the day she had left, a party of Chevaliers and ladies-in-waiting sent to deliver her to her soon-to-be husband. The only marks of the passing years that he could clearly see were the wrinkles of wisdom settling into her skin, and the harshness of rage that marked her once-bright eyes.

“I thought of it, once. Getting married.” He said.

She tilted her head, intrigued, “Really? What was her name?” She sat up straighter against the wall, trying to keep herself awake. Daffodil shifted in his sleep, whimpering quietly.

If only she knew, “Maia. Her name was Maia.”

“What was she like?”

“She was… bright. Always smiling. She was an herbalist, sold her wares out in the gallows from noon to sunset.”

Nelli’s smile sank into a frown, “Oh Victor…”

“Something happened in the Circle. They always say it’s blood magic, but you don't know how often that’s a lie until you’re actually there to see it. They wouldn’t let her leave for months. We were already… friends at that point, I guess. I just wanted to see if she was all right.”

“So you took the vows.”

He nodded.

“What happened to her?”

He paused, “What always happens to a mage that steps out of line.”

“And you?”

“Six months of penance. Then I was in Starkhaven for a while. And then the Seekers.”

“I’m so sorry, Victor.”

“Hm. Look at us, huh?”

“Look at us.”

* * *

A fireball burst through the doors of the Chantry, sending hundreds of wooden splinters flying into the air. Annabelle cursed, throwing her hands up in front of her face as she ran through the debris. A breath of cold air passed over her skin, and she looked over to see Kyoko racing ahead, wrapped in a cold mist of ice.

“Was that necessary?” She asked.

“Hey, it got us out, didn’t it?” Kyoko replied.

Annabelle hazarded a glance behind her, eyes widening at the sight of almost a dozen guards chasing after them, “You just made them angry.”

“They were already angry!”

“No time for talking, just run!” Casey shouted as she went past. Annabelle inwardly cursed her shorter stature and tried to keep up.

The calm Tantervale night had become suddenly interrupted by a mad dash through the streets, arrows and bolts and all kinds of magic thrown from one side to the next. Bells rang across the city as more guards were notified of the fight and called upon to join in. Citizens woke from their beds, looking out of their windows to see the party of escaping mages hurrying through the streets beneath them. Screams of terror and rage rang through the cold air of the early morning.

Up ahead, a battalion of guards stood in formation, a front row of pikes and shields backed by another row of crossbows.

“Hester!” Kyoko yelled as the guards fired their bolts. Within seconds, a large wall of ice erupted from the cobblestone street, growing almost fifteen feet in the air. Annabelle and the rest of the escapees stopped just in time to not run into it, the sound of the bolts hitting the ice on the other side reminding them of the danger of the situation.

She hesitated for a moment, her mind trying to catch up with what was happening at breakneck speed. A hand wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her along, her feet absentmindedly beginning to work underneath her.

“I thought you said you could be discreet,” X said as he pulled her along until she managed to run on her own. He still wore his jester’s hat, the bells on it ringing violently with every step he took.

“I said no such thing.”

“It was implied!” He shouted in incredulous anger. He carried no weapons in his hands, or even a bow on his back. She could hear the sound of soldiers’ greaves hitting the cobblestones behind her, and she worried that if it came to it, he wouldn’t be able to protect himself in a fight.

Those worries quickly disappeared as in one fluid motion, X grabbed something from the belt at his hip and, without looking, threw it behind him with an unhinged giggle. 

In the five seconds before the following blast, it felt as if the world had slowed down, her foot just barely making it the ground before she was pushed forward by the force. Almost falling to her knees, X was just barely able to catch her and keep her running. Her ears rang with a high-pitched squeal as they dealt with the sound of the explosion, and nothing but instinct kept her going as she worked through the disorientation.

From behind her, she could hear the sounds of falling rubble and the frightened screams of guardsmen crushed beneath it. Someone was crying. The air smelled of smoke and sulphur. She kept running.

The main gates of Tantervale stood several yards in front of them, the bells on top of each of its watchtowers swinging back and forth. A dozen bowmen stood on the ramparts, their arrows tipped with fire. Below them, the large iron gates were barred and blocked by several more rows of guards.

“Violet,” Hester called out, “I think it might be time for Herman to make his appearance!”

“Are you sure?” Violet asked.

Arrows rained down from above them. The escaping party stopped in place as Hester threw her arms up, a shimmering aura of green light erupting in the air above them. The fire of the arrows fizzled out and the arrows themselves turned to puffs of smoke as they hit the barrier, “Please!”

“Right.”

Hester groaned, struggling to maintain the barrier as arrows continued to fall. Violet held her staff out in front of her, reaching up to pluck off the skull that sat atop it, nestled between pieces of gnarled wood. At a glance, it merely appeared to be a macabre piece of accoutrement for the similarly styled witch, but as Violet began to speak words of an unknown tongue under her breath, Annabelle began to realise that it was so much more than that.

There was a shift in the air as if every single particle from around and within her had been moved just an inch to the right. It was all of the sudden too hot and too cold at once, and the lingering scent of smoke made way for that of a lightning-struck tree. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, her teeth began to tingle and even her tongue turned numb as the bitter taste of refined Lyrium sat at the back of her throat.

After her chanting, Violet took the skull and hefted it into the air in front of her. It soared safely through the barrier in an arc of several feet before it shattered upon the ground.

And from the destruction of the skull, the world split in two. A ribbon of green energy sliced through the air, and from it a large, clawed, hand struck forth, forcing the strange portal open. Even from as far away as she stood, she could still make out something on the other side, a strange world indescribable, and even though she knew little of it, she suddenly realized that this was the humans and elves referred to as the Fade.

A hulking body blocked her view and pushed its way through the portal. The being was as unknown to her as its place of origin, and the closest thing she could relate it to was an ogre. Though it was taller than the darkspawn, and its body was not made of flesh, but of armour-like plating that fused together and spiked off of its shoulders. Six beady eyes stared at the group over a large mouth of jagged teeth. Its mouth did not move when it spoke, but still, its voice, loud and terrible, rang clear throughout the city. She cupped her hands over her ears, but it did nothing to muffle the sound. She did not know what it said, but the words were enough to fill her with dread.

The monster stared at them, and they waited with bated breath before it turned away to face their foes.

“ _Demon!”_

The guards scrambled in panic as the demon advanced upon them. Annabelle and the group followed Violet leading them forward. Twin whips of lightning shot from the demon’s hands, flailing at the guards that blocked its path. Many tried to get out of the way, most were unable to. Screams filled the air as they neared the gates. Guards lay strewn across the courtyard, armour grafted to skin from the burns, some bodies cleft in two from the slice of the whips. With two final strikes, the ramparts came down from above, and with them, the bowmen fell to their deaths.

The gates were destroyed, and they simply stepped through, no more guards at their heels to pursue them. The bells had stopped ringing. The air still smelled of smoke.

Once outside of Tantervale’s gates, the demon turned back to the group, and with one last roar that echoed throughout the surrounding area, it disintegrated in front of them, leaving no trace that it was ever there. Violet gasped, falling unconscious to the floor. Her sisters ran towards her.

“Is she all right?” Ellenore asked.

“She’s fine,” Hester replied, “Herman was… a last resort. It takes its toll. She just needs rest.”

“Give her here,” Casey said, kneeling done and taking the mage within her arms, “Where to now?”

“We were to meet someone outside the south gate, yes?” Ellenore asked, turning to X.

“Yes! And here I am!” X said, bowing dramatically as he did when they had first met, “Next you must follow a line of blue, to the west lies your final--”

“Please, no more rhyming,” Elle interrupted him.

He looked quite dismayed that she stopped his fun, glaring at her for a second before continuing, “Fine, this way then.”

Elle walked next to Annabelle as the group continued west along the Minanter, X now being the one to lead them. Following him, he seemed to switch between knowing exactly where he was going and being completely lost. They kept off the beaten path, for obvious reasons, but even then the route X took them on was nonsensical, with twists and turns that made no sense, and at a couple of points in time they even turned around and walked back the way they came.

The mages weren’t doing well trudging through untrodden underbrush, unable to even see the path before them without the use of light, which they were afraid to conjure lest they be easily discovered. Occasionally they were sure they were being followed, the entire party freezing to the spot as they heard a squirrel move through the trees above them, only relaxing when silence returned once more.

The rising sun glared off of the rushing waters of the Minanter when X finally began to slow their progress. He muttered something under his breath as if trying to remember a complicated set of directions, turning in place as he walked. Eventually, he stopped where he stood, looked around, then spun in place once more.

“We’re here, we’re here, we’re here,” he said out loud, raising his force as if speaking to someone that they couldn’t see.

Another voice answered, “We know, we see you.”

Annabelle jumped in place, hands racing toward her warhammer, the rest of the group mirroring her movements, the adrenaline of the night still leaving its mark. She turned towards the direction where the voice had come from.

The two men who walked out were nearly identical in appearance and stature, twins to be sure, in every way except in dress. While one wore the shining plate armour of the Templars, the other wore the robes of a Circle mage.

The sisters stiffened at the sight of the Templar. The mage stepped in front of his brother, “Woah there, we’re here to help. _He’s_ here to help.”

The sisters relaxed. The mage smiled.

“I’m Markus,” he said, pressing his hand to his chest, “This is my brother, Isaiah. Welcome to the Collective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter, but at least it's a chapter am I right?
> 
> (I have a week left of school and then I'm done forever, bear with me)
> 
> (Title from verse 2:1 of the Canticle of Erudition)


	5. Rest at the Maker's Right Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags added to work summary.
> 
> Title from verse 1:16 of the Canticle of Trials

In his pain-addled mind, he was sure he was dead, and that she was some type of spirit; Compassion, perhaps, or Hope, something that he was sure that he didn’t deserve, but some desperate part of him wished for anyways. He drifted in and out, floating on the soft pillows of a cloud, watching her as she worked on his body. Every instance of her touch was soothing, a breathing calm that soaked through his skin, healing that aching burn that refused to go away. 

Unable to properly focus on anything else, he would look at her. His vision was hazy, but he could make out her features clearly. Blue eyes, freckles that graced her cheeks. His eyes lazily trailed the outline of intricate tattoos in faint green ink, a tree whose branches extended over her cheekbones and forehead, with its roots buried under the line of her lips. At one point he attempted to extend a hand to trace the lines on her skin, but the limb felt heavy and restrained. She watched him, weary sympathy crossing her features.

When the delirium finally left him, he had no idea how long it had been since then. His mind was still murky with pain, but at the very least he was still alive. He was still in the abandoned observatory as well, his pillows of cloud transformed into hard dirt and ragged cloth. Attempting to move his right arm revealed that it was restrained with rope to a large stone brick, and his left arm was tied in a makeshift sling up against his chest.

Panicking, he took stock of the rest of his body. He had no strength within him to sit up, but moving his legs revealed that they were tied down as well. His armour had been removed, as well as his boots, and even his shirt was gone to be replaced by bandages that wound around his torso and up his chest. Looking around, he saw his pack on the opposite side of the room, contents scattered on the ground.

She had gone through his stuff.

An initial flash of panic spiked through him, and he immediately began to twist at his bonds, pulling against the rope that looped around his wrist. It tugged against his skin, the rough texture rubbing it raw until it turned into an angry red. His injury was further provoked with every jostling movement, occasionally sending shivers of pain through his body, his vision turning black and blurry, forcing him to heave his breath until the pain dulled. His strength drained quickly, sapped by each violent outburst, but his will continued as he pulled at the restraint, mentally preparing himself to break his thumb if--

“You shouldn’t do that,” she said, her voice low and steady, and he turned to look at her. She stood atop the rubble that was the collapsed wall of the observatory, his own bow and quiver slung over his back, and his daggers hanging from a belt around her waist. Her left arm was wrapped in cloth, partially soaked with dried blood.

They regarded each other until his breath returned to him, and he pulled once more at the rope.

“Dahn'direlan,” she said as she huffed over to him, throwing his weaponry to the farthest wall of the observatory. Once she was at his side, she knelt beside him, pressing her cool palm against this sweating forehead, and her other hand against the arm wrapped to his chest. The pain pulsed through him once more, and he stopped struggling to breathe through it, closing his eyes and focusing on her cooling touch.

When he stopped shaking, her touch left him, and then returned with careful fingers, peeling the bandages away from his skin with gentle touches. 

“You aggravated the wound,” she hissed, eliciting a wince when she poked a particularly sore spot, “And the poultice moved off the worst of it. I’ll need to reapply it.”

Her hand went to his back and she helped him sit up, groaning as his muscles protested at being used. While he tried to get his bearings, blinking through the sudden dizziness, she walked over to his pack and returned with his water skin.

“Drink,” she said, bringing the skin up to his lips. He tipped his head back, slurping at the water as it ran into his mouth. It dribbled down his chin, messy and savage like, but he didn’t care as he slaked his sudden thirst. She took it away, and he licked the remains of the water from his lips. Afterwards, he watched as she left his side and went over to the ashes of the fire, where a large stone brick sat. She took out a makeshift bowl made out of stone, along with a twisted bramble of dried plants. Untangling one plant from another, she took out a few leafy green stems, breaking them into smaller bits into her hands. She then returned to kneel beside him, bringing her hand up to his mouth once more, offering it to him.

“Chew on this,” she said, “It’ll help with the pain.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice raspy and weak.

“He speaks.”

“Why,” he paused, licking his dried lips before starting again, “Why are you helping me?”

She took a second to answer, “I did not mean to kill you.”

He did not turn to look at her face, but he could still hear the sincerity in her voice. Sighing, he opened his mouth and ate the dried plant stems out of her hand.

“Chew one at a time. Spit them out when you’re done. It’ll help with the pain.”

He crunched at one of the stalks with his teeth, pushing the others to sit against his cheek, and the familiar bitter taste of elfroot flooded his mouth. He curled his tongue at the taste but continued to chew at the stalk, swallowing the juices that came forth at each bite.

She returned to her stone and the burnt-out fire, taking out her knife and once again using it to cut into her skin, the blood turning into sparks as it hit the wood. He turned away, trying not to look at it. She then went back to her herbs, putting them into the bowl and mashing them using a large, smooth, rock. When the fire finally grew into the rolling flame, she placed the bowl at the base of it to heat.

He spat out the first piece of elfroot, taking a second one out from his cheek.

“You should want me dead,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m here to kill you,” he lied.

“I read your contract, Crow, Strauss wants me alive.”

“Still, it would be better for you if I were dead.”

“Mmh,” she grunted, picking the bowl out of the fire and grinding the contents once more, “As an assassin, I’m sure death comes quite easily for you.”

“Obviously.”

“I could not say the same for myself,” she said as she walked over with the bowl, setting it down on the ground. Her hands went to the bandages wrapped around his chest and arm, “I need to take these off. This may feel uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable was an understatement. She wrapped her arms around his torso to undo the bandages, unwinding them from around his body, reaching her arms to thread them under his right arm with each pass. While the elfroot had done well in soothing the persistent ache he felt, each press of her hands against skin sent tiny flashes of discomfort through his body. He held his breath, trying to keep still for her as she worked, all the while observing her as she did so.

He was taller than her, even when sitting down. Her long hair was done up in a braid, and every time she leaned forward to unwind the bandages, he could look down to see the Magister’s collar sitting around her neck. Upon closer inspection, the Silverite band seemed to have no locking mechanism or any other way to remove it. Some kind of runes, magical in nature probably, were carved into the metal, and from the crevice of those runes shone a hazy blue glow that seemed to pulse. Under the collar, the girl’s pale skin gave way to colour, a dull red that betrayed many attempts made at trying to remove it.

She sat back once she was finished, allowing him to look at his wounds for the first time. The burning was extensive, a giant blister of black, flaking skin that started on his upper right chest and wound its way down across his abdomen and around to his lower back. Small arcs of lightning bolt scars radiated from the wound, further imprinting the attack on his skin.

“Here,” she leaned across his body, the bowl in her hand. Sticking two fingers inside of it, she brought out a large chunk of the mixture of herbs and brought it to his skin. The poultice itself was warm after being heated in the fire, but after it was applied it left a cooling sensation against his skin. He sighed at the feeling, looking down and watching as her fingers continued farther down, covering all of the blistered skin and leaving behind a chunky, leafy goo. Watching on, he was suddenly aware that she was staring intently at his naked chest, and he turned to look away from her, trying to hide his blush.

Trying to take his mind off of his own awkwardness, he spoke, “You’re a mage.”

“Yes,” she replied, her fingers going to his abdomen. It tickled, and his breath hitched. She didn’t seem to notice.

“So why-- why aren’t--”

“Why not use magic?”

“Yes.”

She stopped her work, trying to collect herself before continuing, “I can’t.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“The lightning was--”

“Blood magic?” he interrupted

“-- a _mistake_ ,” she supplied, jabbing him in the side. He winced, cursing under his breath, “Sorry.”

He sat in silence as she continued, not wanting to press her further. Once she finished applying the poultice, she wrapped his bandages once more, allowing his left arm to remain free.

“Try to stay still, allow the poultice to soak,” she said as she stood up, returning to her smouldering fire. He nodded absentmindedly, slowly falling back to the ground. Looking up to the sky, the sun had just begun to sink closer to the horizon, yet exhaustion had already begun to sink in.

“What do I call you?” she asked, as he had begun to tempt fate and closed his eyes.

“Jasper,” he replied lazily.

“Jasper,” she repeated.

“You’re Evangeline.”

“Hmmm,” she groaned, “Please, not that name.”

“What name then?” 

“Just Eva.” 

“Eva,” he mumbled, testing the name against his tongue.

“You should rest,” she said.

His eyelids felt heavy, “Good idea.”

Jasper woke again the next day to the smell of meat cooking over the fire, a deep rumble from his stomach shaking him into consciousness. Blinking open his eyes, he looked up into the sky, where the sun stood directly over him. Midday.

“You slept well,” she said. He turned to his head towards her voice. She sat on the ground, pouring over a piece of parchment.

“Uh, good,” he shakily sat up, groaning at the dull ache that had returned overnight. His stomach grumbled once more.

“And you’re hungry.”

“Yes.”

“Good. That means you’re healing,” she went over to the fire, grabbing a spit of meat that she had placed between a pair of haphazardly balanced sticks, “Here, go slowly, you haven’t eaten in four days.”

He nodded his thanks, bringing the meat to his mouth and biting off a piece. It was chewy and unseasoned. He struggled to swallow it.

“What are you looking at?” he asked as he took another bite, speaking over the food in his mouth.

She looked at him through the corner of her eye, “Maps.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“Nowhere you need to know.”

“Still thinking of letting me live, huh?”

“Despite your _convincing_ arguments, yes.”

“If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Or your master.”

“ _Former_ master.”

“Does it matter?”

She huffed, “Do you _want_ to do this, Jasper?”

He chuckled, “I don’t _want_ to do anything. The Crows tell me to do something, and I do it.”

“So you know what it’s like, then.”

He cocked his head to the side, “What it’s like?”

She looked him in the eye, “To be a slave.”

She stunned him into silence. He took another bite of his food, swallowing it. His stomach felt queasy, but he was able to hold it down. She had left him his waterskin. He opened it, gulping down several swigs of water. It was warm and unrefreshing and had taken on a bitter taste. His stomach rolled. He lay back down, stretching his arms out beside him.

“What would you have me do?” He asked.

“Forget me,” she answered, “Allow your contract to run out.”

“Did your _former_ master ever prove himself to be the forgiving type?”

“For someone who wished for me to kill him, you seem quite interested in staying alive.”

“I like living. Most people do.”

“Then leave.”

“Leave?”

“Leave the Crows.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“If a shackled slave can escape the Imperium, surely _you_ \--”

“And where would I go?”

“I--”

“An alienage perhaps? Packed into a shack with a dozen or more, praying for a chance at another meal?”

“Jasper--”

“Or would your Dalish allow me to join them? If they did, would I even want to? I know nothing of their culture, their language, their way of life. I would be an outsider.”

She tried to get another word in, but he continued.

“Or maybe I’ll wander the road. I’m good at being alone. That is until a slaving party takes me and carts me up to the Imperium, and then I’ll _really_ know what it’s like to be a slave.”

She remained silent.

“I’m an assassin. I kill people for contract. Humans, dwarves, elves, qunari. Sometimes I hate it, sometimes I enjoy it, most of the time I don’t care one way or the other. Whether I enjoy it or not doesn’t matter, because, at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that I am a _Crow_ before I’m an _elf_.”

He turned onto his side, facing away from her, waiting for her to have the last word. But she didn’t say anything, and for a brief moment, he felt sorry for his outburst. His anger made him tired, the empty void of sleep silently tugging at his healing body once more. He felt drained, not only from the physical pain but also from the abrupt baring of emotions before this woman he hardly knew. The day had only just begun for him, and yet he still felt no shame closing his eyes once more and dozing back to sleep. He blinked his eyes closed to the sight of his half-empty waterskin still clutched in his outstretched palm, suddenly remembering its familiar bitter taste.

“You’re drugging me, aren’t you?” He asked, his words slurring as he returned to the void of rest.

When he awoke for the last time, she was gone. Any remnants of her residence had disappeared, the fire and its embers swept away. His own things sat only a few feet away from him, his things neatly put away in his pack, his armour, bow, quiver, and daggers placed on top. He quickly sat up, the restraints on his right arm and legs gone. Embracing stillness, he waited and listened for any sign of her presence, any clue that might reveal her hiding place, but he could not find one.

Sighing, he pushed himself up onto his feet with shaking arms and quaking knees, breathing heavily when a wave of dizziness flowed through his head. Pausing once he stood up tall, he took a second to regain his bearings, waiting until he was able to focus his vision once more.

On top of his pack sat a small leather pouch with a scrap of parchment tucked under it. He grabbed the parchment, unrolling it.

_Apply nightly and wrap. Good for a week._

_May we never meet again._

She didn't sign her name.

He crumpled the note in his hands, throwing it to ground, and began the ordeal of putting on his armour. Picking it up, the leather felt smooth to the touch, supple and soft, as if it had been freshly oiled. The shirt he wore under the leather was folded on too, and it smelled of dried herbs and flowers, a significant improvement from the stench of sweat. Looking further at his belongings, he noticed even more pieces of her presence that she had left behind: his bow had been restrung, his arrows fletched with black crow’s feathers, and even a couple pairs of socks at the bottom of his back had been darned. 

Work for idle hands, perhaps.

Getting out of the Necropolis was a much greater ordeal than entering. Unable to lift his arms higher than his shoulders, climbing over the walls once more was out of the question. A more direct approach was needed.

At night, the dead of the Necropolis were left to themselves, but in the light of day, their custodians made their appearance. Sticking to the shadows cast by the large marble mausoleums and family tombs, Jasper watched as the Mortalitasi tended to their undead patrons. They moved through the maze of the Necropolis in packs of four, black robes that trailed behind them on the ground and matching hoods that covered their faces. Earning a glance under the hood, he caught the sight of charred-bone masks etched with the image of a white lily at the center of the forehead. Despite being mages, they carried no staves, yet a quiet chant followed them wherever they walked, soothing the dead and leading them to follow in their wake.

He chose one of the quartets and followed them closely, keeping them within his eyesight as he crept behind. They seemed to work in a circuit, leading him further up the mountain before returning back down to the main gates of the Necropolis. Once there, his quartet joined up with a dozen others, arranging themselves into two silent columns and continuing back out into the city. A matching group of mages came the opposite way, relieving the first shift of their duties. Common folk lined the street, watching the procession of mages with wary glances. The gates did not remain open for long, but he was able to get out, flitting behind a forward-facing guard and into an alley that hugged the Necropolis' wall just as the gates closed behind the second group.

He ran until the gates were out of sight behind, finally pausing to lean against the walls and regain his breath. Each heave sent a sudden jolt of pain through his upper chest, a reminder that his wound still needed time to heal.

He cursed. Cursed again. Turned around and punched his fist into the stone. Collapsing to his knees, he pressed his forehead against the cool rock, cursing and shaking and trying to calm himself amongst it all, trying to remember to breathe.

Her note offered a guideline for how long it would take: another week to heal at least, then he would have to pick up her trail again, which would be much more difficult now that she knew that she was being followed, and he had only caught up with her in the first place by a misplaced stroke of luck.

Even if she hadn't killed him, he was certainly already dead.

He stuck to the alleyways and dark corners as he slinked through the city, away from the entrance of the Grand Necropolis and in the direction of Nevarra’s leisure district. The Crow’s guild in the city was in the upper floors of one of the city’s most popular, and expensive, bathhouses, the entrance to which was accessed through the building’s roof. He climbed up to the roofs of the city several blocks away, keeping low as he leapt between them, wincing at each step. When he finally made it to his destination, exhaustion had already begun to set in on his damaged body, and it had only just past the toll of the midday bells.

He dropped down onto the wooden floorboards of the Nevarran guild, earning glares from several other Crows who took up lodging within. It was considerably more spacious here than the guild in Minrathous, the sleeping quarters housing two lines of several cots backed against opposite walls. Half of them were already taken. He walked over to the farthest from the entrance, tossing his pack onto the bed before his body followed quickly after. He groaned as the impact hit his injury, rolling onto his side to take the pressure off the wound. His skin burned in irritation, the pain preventing him from falling into much-needed rest.

He sighed, lifting himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and began rooting through his pack for the small leather pouch. Once found, he took off his shirt, hunching over himself to prevent any wayward glances. He opened the pouch, grabbed a decent amount of the poultice onto his middle fingers, and brought it to his abdomen, shakily exhaling as the cooling sensation prickled against his skin. He continued to spread it up onto his chest, and then around his side and onto his lower back, forced to bend awkwardly as he tried to reach behind him.

A whistle sounded throughout the room, followed by a light chuckle and a familiar Antivan accent, “New scar there, brother?”

Jasper startled, jumping in place as he looked toward the doorway to see a human leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest, hood pulled in front of his eyes, a dangerous smirk written on his face, “Your poor face has already taken so much punishment, you should take care of yourself.”

“Rodrigo,” Jasper greeted, turning away from him, “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you any time soon.”

The human stood up tall, walking over to sit on the bed across from Jasper, “I’m quite surprised myself, it’s been years since you left Fereldan. You know I don’t like the weather down south. What brings you out of the land of barbarians and dogs?”

Jasper shrugged his shoulders, “What else? Work,” he said, hoping his short answer would quickly end their conversation.

“You always were a talkative one.”

“Hmph. Where’s your sister?”

“Down in Orlais, unfortunately, chasing down some poor disgraced Comtesse,” Rodrigo sighed wistfully, “She gets to have all the fun.”

At least he didn’t have to deal with the both of them, though it was strange to hear that the siblings had been separated, “Lucky her.”

“Aye. Perhaps you could use some, brother,” Rodrigo nodded at Jasper’s injury, “You look terrible”

Jasper shook his head, reaching in his pack for a roll of fresh bandages and began to wrap them around his abdomen, “Thanks.”

Rodrigo leaned in closer, “What did it? I simply must know.”

Jasper paused. Discussing contracts with one another was generally looked down upon among the Crows, but she had already dug his grave for him, digging it any deeper wouldn’t hurt. He moved in closer to Rodrigo, whispering into his ear, “A blood mage. She’s an escaped slave from the Imperium. I’m returning her to her master.”

He moved away, quickly looking around the room to see if anyone was there to overhear them. Looking back at Rodrigo, the human’s smirk and grown into a wide grin, his eyes wide with barely contained glee, “Fascinating. ”

“You could say th--”

“Let me join you.”

“What?”

Rodrigo’s smile broadened, “I’ve just wrapped up a contract in the city, let me join you on yours.”

“Why?”

Rodrigo shrugged, “I always love a challenge. Besides, you look in need of assistance and, despite your ridiculous need to separate yourself from us, you are still of House Dellamorte, and we need to look out for one another, yes?”

“You’ve never struck me as incredibly altruistic, _brother_.”

“Oh, no, I’m not,” he chuckled, “We split the contract down the middle, for my services, of course, and I will also require additional payment as an incentive, of course.”

“For what?”

Rodrigo leaned in to whisper in his ear, “My _silence_ , dear brother.”

Jasper flinched, curling away from the human, his hand going to grab one of his daggers. Rodrigo’s hand shot out to stop him, grabbing Jasper’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

“No, no, no. No need for violence,” Rodrigo shook his head, reaching out his other hand, “Do we have a deal.”

Jasper looked at the outstretched hand, cursing his idiocy, “Of course.” He took it and shook.

Rodrigo smiled, “Brilliant. Rest tonight. We leave early tomorrow.”

He squeezed Jasper’s hand one last time before he stood up, sauntering out of the sleeping quarters, leaving Jasper to stare wearily after him.

“Fuck.”


End file.
